He hides behind a pretty face, gorgeous words, breathtaking lands.
His ruthless army made of one fights against a human army of billions, but he's a coward. His weaponry made of ash.
He himself has no real power unless our tug-a-war pull is too weak or we simply let go.
He's drawn to the color red - a sincere heart, the synaptic cells of a conscientious brain, the blunt tongue of an honest man.
He's like Dracula isn't afraid to take a bite. He goes straight for the jugular where he thinks he can compete with the very thing nearest to it.
He's a rebel. His origin traces back to the first man's and that of other angels but he disgraces his ancestry. His nose stuck up. His head too big. He pounds the earth with his big feet. His head in the clouds. His roar too loud.
For some he's a chronic disease, for others he's a common cold, and for many a nagging headache.
His favorite hang out spots - anywhere...a place of worship, a dear family's home, a local school, a ship of friends...you name it, he's there to infest it.
He just hates to be silent, just loves to talk, the mischievous life of any party.
He cleverly invented the word BACK - backbiting, backstabbing, backlashing, back talk.
His preferred target - a person of morals. His best ally - a person of evil.
He breaths down your throat and mine.
He's like an Olympic swimmer, the only time he takes a breath is when he turns away from you to turn his head towards someone else but instead of his breath giving you life it gives your soul death.
His insides filthy. Inhale and you'll need resuscitation - Mount Everest's freshest air to recover.
He's like the murkiest of swamps in the Nile but don't take a sip. Its parasite you may have to host for a very long time.
He's spotted in every crowd wearing a familiar mask holding on tightly to his muffled bullhorn sending out radio active waves to fry your under the skin spirit. Sizzle.
You think he's a fan? You've been burned. He's his own fan who pats himself on the back with every turn, grins with every shot, waves with every kick.
Yesterday you used the best diction, tomorrow you'll use vulgar words. But you're reminded...you'll get paid top dollar. You've been pimped. A momentary fix traded in for top heaven.
He's out to recruit the best, to summon you to join his underhanded team. Willingly sign up and he'll never leave you. You'll have to leave him if you want to be crowned a winner. Run, be recruited by another team, run to the angels, run to the light, run swiftly to persons of right conduct. Avoid him even if it takes sweating bullets. Even if you think you're pious it'll take all you have in you to dodge this malicious magnet.
His alluring technique is simple. An effective way of getting your attention when you're not paying attention. It's sly, it's crafty. It'll likely draw you in. It'll likely beacon you to hell. It may even seduce you. He just plain whispers. When you hear this faint plea "Join my team of Jinns and Men", you'll know it's him especially if you're on guard.
He's there when you wake up. He's there when you go to sleep.
He lurks. He hides. He's like a stalker you can never see but you know he's hiding in a bloomed bush somewhere.
He's like a leech that when you try to shake off, latches on harder until the forceful breath of Allah is blown over it, it falls at a speed of gravity to the ground.
His preemptive killers - Authentic Taqwa, A'udhu Billahi Minash Shaitanir Rajeem, reading of the Quran, fasting, Astaghfirullaha Rabbi wa atubu ilaih and other thikhr.
by Najwa Kareem
*originally published at www.islamicpoem.com on 11/27/16